


Mercy

by adjourn



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, Incest, M/M, sort of, this kind of turned into dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 19:41:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1869975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adjourn/pseuds/adjourn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haytham knew he should have killed the boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Character study turned...this.  
> Parent/child incest usually really squicks me but somehow I just can't get enough of this pairing. Eh, I'm going to hell anyways. I've got nothing to lose.
> 
> Alternative summary: "Everything Haytham Kenway would never admit out loud. P.S. I need to get a grip and not write incest."
> 
> Russian translation by aki available [here](http://ficbook.net/readfic/2158138)

Haytham knew he should have killed his son the moment he recognized him at Bridewell Prison. Should have pierced his chest with the cold steel of his sword, should have slit his throat with the hidden blade—what a wonderfully ironic death that would have been.

He hadn't done it, however, perhaps out of some misplaced sense of guilt: He had spared his son's life to make up for his own absence in it. Instead, he had concocted a plan that would brutally condemn the boy, a plan where Haytham did not have to execute his son with his own hands, a plan that would have him hung as a despicable traitor—because after all, the boy was an Assassin. He was _the_ Assassin, the one responsible for ruining Haytham's life work.

And by God, if that didn't make him both terrifically proud and bloody infuriated at the same time.

Haytham, though, was weak, in the end. He was more affected by sentiment than he wished to admit, and seeing his son's face obscured by burlap, the noose fastened tightly around his neck, it filled him with an irresistible rage, a passionate hellfire burning through his veins until he couldn't help it—he threw the dagger, and his son was free. Alive. He had saved the man who was singlehandedly demolishing all Haytham had spent the last twenty or so odd years building.

It was the lowest point of his life, right up until the point he ambushed his son ( _Connor,_ the name weighed on his tongue like fresh snow, like saltwater and the sea breeze) in a church and brought a blade to his neck, and a primal hunger flared low in Haytham's belly and he thought: _magnificent._

From there, it was merely a downhill spiral.

If it had been paternal instinct that made Haytham save his son from execution, then that instinct was—not gone, per se, just viciously overshadowed by _want_ and an overwhelming affection that certainly was not fatherly. He simply could not help it, could not help being attracted to his son's (Father of Understanding _forgive_ him) thick cords of muscle, the Assassin's uniform fit snugly across the broad expanse of his chest; to his animalistic fighting style, brutally tearing apart his enemies with predatory grace; to the glint of challenge in his eyes, the conviction and strength of character he displayed.

All this drove Haytham to pin Connor against the wall of the _Aquila_ captain's quarters during an argument one night and kiss him senseless, nip at his neck and slip a knee between his thighs, card his fingers through dark hair and _pull_ until a low keen escaped Connor's throat.

With nimble fingers, he brought his son to near completion, but hesitated. Haytham stepped back and observed his handiwork, wondering if he should feel disgusted with himself for making his son look so thoroughly debauched: pupils blown and lips swollen, bruises littering his neck, his cock standing tall and flushed red beside the white of the captain's uniform. Haytham felt nothing except arousal, and perhaps a bit of smug pride, so he continued.

And, well, it would have been downright cruel to stop then.

The incident led to a string of other encounters that Haytham had truly been powerless to stop—moaning as a warm mouth enveloped his erection down to the base, fucking his son into the bed at his villa and watching Connor's cock bob obscenely against his stomach, pressing delicate kisses on the insides of his son's thighs as he worked two fingers deep inside Connor's hole. Obviously, what they were doing was horrifically wrong. Even if sodomy had been legal, incestuous relations between a father and son were certainly unforgivable. But Haytham, for all that he sought control and order, was helpless when it came to his own son, the idiot boy. Being with Connor summoned an ineluctable feeling of freedom, a tumultuous chaos that was against everything Haytham stood for.

But he could not help it. God, he should have killed the boy. Haytham's carefully constructed world was crumbling to pieces, and he could barely register it, so captivated he was by Connor. His son, somehow, along the course of endless disagreements and scathing words, of teasing smirks and cautious embraces, had turned him into a sentimental fool.

Yet, with Connor curled into his side, bare-chested and beautiful and free of the resentful confusion that so often burdened his features, Haytham could not regret sparing his son. Not when each soft exhale against his neck brought a peculiar warmth to his chest, not when half-lidded eyes stared up at him with affection and admiration he had never known before, not when a sleepy smile turned into sweet kisses along his jaw and an affectionate nuzzle of his neck.

Haytham knew he should have killed the boy.

(Because now, he was stuck with loving him.)

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me on [tumblr](http://douchewolf.tumblr.com/)?


End file.
